Bare rooms, the echo of white light.

The moon, I think,

Is a white sail of pain..The answer isn’t love or furniture,

We’re always on the move..A satellite a hundred miles up

Paces its slow curve. Landscape

Glides beneath it. Scars..We are discussing the possibility of dedicating a session early in 2018 to the poetry of Jan Zwicky, probably combining it with the poetry of Lorna Crozier. Let us have your thoughts on this.